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. After a while, John goes to the back of the van to lie down. The van shifts slightly with his movement. Something creaks in the undercarriage.
    “Ella, where are the kids?”
    “They’re at home.”
    John sits up in bed, stares wide-eyed at the seam where the paneling meets the ceiling. “We left them there?”
    “Uh-huh.” I know what’s coming.
    He twists his head now, searching for me, eyes frantic with fear. “For Christ’s sake, we left the kids alone?”
    I slap down the paper, in no mood for this. “John, the kids are adults. They’ve got families of their own now. They have their own houses. They’re fine.”
    “They are?” he says, not quite believing.
    “Yes. Don’t you remember? Kevin and Cindy both got married. Kevin and Arlene have got two boys, Peter and Steven. And Cindy has a boy and a girl.”
    “They do?”
    “Yes, John. Don’t you remember? Their names are Lydia and Joey.”

    “Oh yeah. They’re little kids.”
    “Joey’s eighteen. Lydia’s in college. Remember going to her high school graduation?”
    Sometimes it feels like all I ever say is “Don’t you remember?” to John. I know that somewhere inside of his head, floating around, are all these memories of our life together. I refuse to believe that they are gone. They just need to be coaxed out. And if they need to be nagged out, then so be it.
    “Lydia gave a little speech at graduation, about knowing where you’re heading, finding your own way into the future? Everyone applauded? Joey played in the band at the ceremony?”
    “Yeah, I remember.”
    “Well, good. You should remember. Keep remembering it because I’m goddamn sick and tired of remembering everything for you.”
    “I’m sorry, Ella,” he says, shamed.
    Sometimes I just want to smack myself. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, too, honey. I didn’t mean to get mad.”
    “It’s this memory of mine.”
    “I know, dear.”
    I turn the page and decide to tackle the Jumble. I look around for a pencil.
    “Ella, where are the kids?”
    Deep breath. “They’re fine, John. Why don’t you take a nap?”
    So, I tell him to take a nap and what happens? I fall asleepat the table. Involuntary catnaps: it’s another reason why getting old is for the birds. You don’t mean to fall asleep, but then suddenly you wake up and hours have passed. It’s an entirely different time of day. There’s a gap, an in-between period you just can’t account for.
    It’s pitch-black in the van now and it scares me. John and I have not let it get completely dark in our house for years. These days, it disorients him and it just plain spooks me. When we go to bed, we always leave lights on all over the house. We sleep in half-dark rooms, doze in shadows. We live there, in the half night, especially John.
    “John!” I yell, trying not to panic. He’s snoring to beat the band. Finally, I remember that there’s a lamp right over the table. Jesus. I reach up and fumble around till I find the switch. The light makes me safe again.
    “John, get up.” I look at my watch.
    “What is it?” he says, voice sticky with sleep.
    “We’ve been snoozing for almost three hours. It’s dark outside.” I try to get up, but my legs are asleep. I wiggle my feet to get the circulation started. “Could you help me?”
    “Just a second,” he says. In a moment, he’s at the table, his hands outstretched to pull me.
    “Ow, ow, ow.” The edge of the table scrapes my belly. “Old Two-Ton Tessie here.” Then I’m back on my feet, knees discomforting like crazy.
    “Hush,” John says, smoothing back my hair. His hands smell vinegary, but I welcome his touch.

    “I’m okay. You hungry?”
    John brightens at the mention of food. He’s in good post-nap spirits. Sometimes he wakes up mean as the devil. It can go either way.
    “Why don’t I make us some eggs and bacon?” I say.
    “Good deal.”
    I shuffle to the kitchenette, all of three steps. (This is why RVs are the cat’s ass. When you get